I flushed that flock of doves three times.An hour’s worth of wingbeats in a rushand then a rush and then a rush.—From “Walking on a Path by Fisher Creek, I Flushed a Flock of Doves,” Volume 60, Issue 3 (Fall 2019) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first . . .
Read More
maybe we’ve got it wrong postponing fire dowsing the stone earth for whitewater whelping green and breathe how breathtaking the last river in estrus dried a centipede seen from above fern fen and fringe of locust and its honey —From “heavenly body . . .
Read More
Photo by Stacie Pottinger of Rogue Studios There are so many waysof burning things, butnot many of containingthe flames they becomethat last. —From “When I Discovered Sacrifice by Fire,” Volume 60, issue 3 (Fall 2019) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.“Detour, Missouri” was really a goodbye to a . . .
Read More
I know you less and less,but forgive your miscalculations, the distances you thought you might travel,and your desire to be good. Time grows between usWith a mechanical agency. —From “To My Younger Self,” Volume 60, Issue 3 (Fall 2019) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.When I was nine . . .
Read More
“I came back warm from a long winter run to find my daughter on the couch, feet raised, arm wrapped in a wet towel, a glass of chocolate milk on the end table where her father’s ashes used to be.” —from “Dark Smoke Rose,” Volume 60, Issue 3 (Fall 2019) Tell us . . .
Read More
But her features were falling off her face and her lap was sliding off her legs and her voice shifted, as if the ground were dropping away, and she slipped inside her skin a little, as if the mask were too big, and the air rippled with voices and the clatter of . . .
Read More
Photo by Guy Freeman. “It doesn’t have to be unfeministto carry them across the bridge if you meant to spend the morningthis way, and know he’s savoring the gesture (and will wash the bowl). . . .“ —from “Across the Bridge Noodles,” Volume 60, Issue 3 (Fall 2019) Tell us about one . . .
Read More
“In Long Island, I prepared to do a mitzvah. My breakdancing crew didn’t ask me about the bombing in Dallas yesterday—the news more front-page than the San Diego ICE raids or the Dominican kid shot in the Bronx last weekend. Just as I didn’t ask which of my boys were undocumented. Maybe . . .
Read More
“My dream awakens after sleep. I cannot swearthese are my hands. The night is probing the airfor bodies asking a little grace from the watery moon.”—from “Trying to Pray,” Volume 60, Issue 2 (Summer 2019) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.As an undergraduate I took a class with Mary . . .
Read More
“When I shook hands with himhis hand remained in my handthat’s how he is, generous, I told myselfas I tried to get rid of his warm handthat grasped my own ever more tightly” —From “Two Snails Stuck to My Cheeks,” by Matei Visniec, translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Lidia Vianu, Summer 2019 (Vol. . . .
Read More